


And the Crow Once Called the Raven Black

by Eluare



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Mediocre strong language, but I will try, not sure about the relationships yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-11-18 01:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18110681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eluare/pseuds/Eluare
Summary: Therion works alone. Always. But with the fool's bangle on his wrist and a group calling themself the "crows" in his back, he is forced to join a small travelling group that promises him protection. After all, the dragonstones he's supposed to steal for House Ravus seem to be far more than shiny stones.





	1. Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Thanks for stopping by. This is my first work here on Ao3, so I'm not entirely sure if I made everything correctly - especially since I'm not a native speaker, ahaaa. But I hope it's alright and if there is something amiss, please let me know! :)
> 
> This little thing is the result of a writing practice my friend and I do weekly. I have about 5 or 6 chapters prepared (although they are not chronological) and so i decided to try and start a whole project with it (although there are enough stories like this from Therion's perspective, but heyyy practice und such? :'D).   
> I was trying to combine everyone's story a little bit more (hence the crows are involved in Therion's story as well) in order to give them a reason to travel together. Not sure if it worked out, but let me know if it bothers you. :)
> 
> With that said, I hope you can enjoy this little piece~

He had hardly left Boulderfall, but Therion already knew one thing: He hated S'waarki forest.

Hated how the branches would creak beneath his feet, how animals and monsters were startled from the slightest motion and thus revealed his position. He hated, how the moss beneath his feet squeaked, filled with rain and mud, and he hated the way his pursuers’ steps were drowned by the sound of every other creature in the forest.

Most of all, however, he hated the wretched iron shackle on his wrist that struck his side and jingled with every step he made.

The path intertwined into the thicket, leaving him in the false belief of finding shelter in the shadow of the trees. His breath hitched. His gaze rushed from one side to the next, fingers cramped around the dagger in his hand, constantly focused on the sound of the arrows hitting the trees behind him.

When Codelia had offered to accompany him to the outskirts, he had thought it was nothing more than a noble gesture to prove to him how kind and caring she was. However, it had only taken a few miles between him and Boulderfall to show him that there was indeed a reason for her concern.  
Although he had only just learned about the dragonstones, let alone held one in his hand, someone had already set his eye on him.

A knife shot past him, barely missing his cheek and he felt blood, hot and burning, running down his cheek. He struck a flank and changed direction. Behind the trees. Away. Away from the path.

They were three, if his senses didn't deceive him. 

An archer, far in the background. His steps were firmer than the others’. Loud and thoughtless. Therion could hear the buzz of his bowstring when he fired.

He was careless, a beginner probably and therefore harmless - at least for him. But together with the other two...

The second one was big - if the cracking of the branches he occasionally grazed was any indicator. And Therion had only once noticed the third one before. That one was dangerous.

He dared to look back and found himself met by a new knife, which he knocked to the ground with his own dagger. The archer revealed his position with a short flash of his arrow in the sunlight. Therion let the flames dance briefly over his fingers before he released them in his direction.  
He had no time to check if he had hit.

Despite the leaves still wet from the rain, the surrounding plants caught fire immediately. Smoke rose into the sky, clouded his senses and caught onto the mossy ground to cover his tracks.  
Arrows rustled behind him, but the archer was now too far away to see him through the smoke, let alone land a hit.  
A suppressed groan revealed that the big one was close behind.

The hand around the dagger loosened and he reached for a hidden knife on his belt. He held his breath for a moment to listen.  
He concentrated on the sound of the fire. Crackling branches. A suppressed hiss.  
With a swift movement, Therion turned around and threw the knife. He discovered a black cape, set ablaze by the flames and and his hit was rewarded with a painful cry.  
Another knife, this time in his direction, left him no time to rejoice.  
He deflected the projectile with a fireball, ducked anyways for safety and jumped to the side.  
His feet slithered over the sudden mud floor. Slipped.  
He lost his balance as he tried to avoid a tree and hit the ground hard. His ribs groaned under a familiar pain and suddenly all air was pressed out of his lungs.  
He could hear his heartbeat smashing against his ribs.  
But there was no time for memories.  
As soon as the feeling returned to his body, he hurriedly reached for his dagger and fought himself on his feet.

Just in time, as it turned out, as another black cloak, together with a metallic flash, stepped into his field of vision. He drew back, reached for the sword on his belt instead of the dagger, and parried the next blows. 

Blade struck blade. The clinking of their swords finally let him forget about the other voices of the forest, as the flames burned down slowly.  
Therion searched a gap in his defense whenever he and his opponent would strike for the next blow. He recognized a feint quickly, but his opponent did the same and so only their blades met each other again and again.

 

"Just hand it over," the man said after a blow that pushed Therion a few steps back. Their looks met and the arrogance in the eyes of his opponent let him tighten his hands around the handle of his sword.  
"Sorry to disappoint you..." he said, still looking for a mistake, a weak point, "But the thing is: I don't have it."  
He pushed forward, tried a blow to the side to pass him. But his opponent wasn't stupid, that had been clear from the beginning. Once more he skilfully parried his blow, pushed him further back into the thicket, into the mud and kept Therion’s thoughts focused on avoiding his blows. He didn't give him the time to search the surroundings for a way out.  
"Don't take me for a fool, boy." He laughed as Therion stumbled briefly after a blow. "Nobody wanders in House Ravus and gets out again, if he got caught.”  
Therion didn't answer, but saved the information that they didn't seem to know about his deal with Heathcote.  
Right now, the bigger problem was the blade close to his head.  
"A stubborn one, aren't we?" The other thief snorted. "Fine then."  
"You talk too much."  
This time Therion was the one who could manage to throw him off with a swift blow.  
First of all he made sure to get out of the mud before the ground under his feet let him slip a second time.  
He didn't get far, but now that he was standing on more or less firm ground again, it was easier to withstand the blows.  
No longer concerned about his foot slipping when he would move too fast, he finally managed to graze his opponent's temple with his sword. A black coat sailed to the ground during battle, revealing a bloody wound, but the next moment Therion found himself against the blade again and retreated.  
Sweat ran down his forehead, the cut on his cheek made his skin go numb and he had to admit to his shame that he was getting tired.  
His movements became hectic. He needed a way out, but luckily his opponent became just as sloppy. The wound bothered him more than he wanted to show.

He was used to cuts and scrapes. Nevertheless, every single one made the fight harder than necessary and he gasped exhausted when he had a little time to catch his breath.  
And finally it was there. The way out.  
Without paying any further attention to the man in front of him, who was already swinging his next blow, he ducked past him and scurried over a small hill.  
Leaves flew in the air, as he hit the ground, a rumbling curse of the thief followed him into the shadow of the nearby trees.  
But his footsteps stopped abruptly as a stabbing pain pierced his chest from behind and the momentum of the thrust threw him to the ground.  
The skin around the wound began to burn instantly, setting him on fire and stunning him for a moment before he could gather the strength he needed to get on his feet.  
A foot pressed him back to the floor and he suppressed a painful wheeze.  
The archer, he noticed.  
He had hoped that his fire spell had put him out and the burn on his face proved that he at least had to fight with it for a while.  
Obviously not long enough.  
Therion tried to kick his stomach, but his legs were suddenly heavy as lead. Nausea rose in him as laziness overpowered him.  
Whatever the arrow had been dipped into, it was effective.

He reached for a knife on his belt, but was stopped again by a foot and answered with a suffocated groan.  
The second thief stepped up to him, bent over his miserable figure with a smile, and finally kicked him in the stomach, making him roll to the side with a pained yelp.  
"For the temple," he huffed.  
The still intact part of his brain wanted to point out to him that he surely would look better than before with the scar on his head, but the other part struggled to keep him conscious while the remaining cells of his body refused to act.

And suddenly he was back in the Cliftlands.  
Bleeding, injured, completely shattered on the ground.  
Gasping for air as each breath threatened to cut his lungs open.  
The surroundings danced in front of him, while he screamed inside to stay conscious, otherwise it would be over, otherwise he would have won, otherwise... 

He was brought back to reality when a firm hand grabbed his jaw and tore his head around.  
"Where is it?" the thief spat in his face and Therion couldn't help but laugh heartlessly, although his chest threatened to break with every movement.  
"I told you."  
"For fuck’s sake!"  
The thief let his head fall back to the ground and Therion felt the bile rise in his stomach. Despite the heat that set his whole body on fire, he was freezing. Once more he reached shakingly for his knives, but although there was no foot pressing him to the ground, his hand was unable to move far from its present position.  
"And now?" The archer's voice seemed far, far away, but Therion concentrated on what he heard. On how his breath hissed through his teeth; on how his body tingled with every movement. Everything that made him stay conscious.  
It wasn’t over yet.  
Not with that cursed fool’s bangle on his wrist.  
"The boss won't like that," grumbled the second thief, but the rest of his words got caught in an undefinable slur. Therion could still make out simple words like the dragonstones and something about a crow before his vision was covered by a white fog. He clung desparately to the scraps of words he could hear. The rattling of his breath. The well-known pain of the wound in his chest.  
"Just give up already," echoed a voice in his head that wasn't quite his. "It's not like anyone’d miss you."

And, for just a second, he agreed.  
However, that didn’t mean, that he would go down without a fight.

 

Waking up has always been a difficult affair for Therion.  
Most of the time it was sudden, startled by a loud noise that reminded him that his hiding place for the night might not have been that well-hidden after all. Sometimes it was overwhelming, paralyzing, torn from a memory he had wanted to forget. If he was lucky, the transition was smooth. A back and forth between waking and resting, before he decided that he had to go on before someone found him in that state.  
But it was never slow.  
He did not remember the last time he felt his body wake up little by little. The tingling in his feet, the sluggishness of his eyelids, the gentle embrace of sleep still plucking at him and surely taking him in again if he allowed it. He was unusually cold. No scarf rubbing at his neck, instead a firm pressure around his upper body under the thin fabric of his shirt.  
Then the pain awoke and Therion bent to the side panting.  
There was the intensity he knew so well. The gut wrenching pain in his chest, the sudden increase of his heartbeat.  
From one moment to the next, catapulted back into the cold, hard reality. He breathed through his teeth to hold back the rising nausea and supported himself shakily on his forearms, which, thank Aeber, finally followed his instructions again.

"Whoa, hey!"

Two rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders, but before Therion could think more about what exactly they were up to, he opened his eyes, turned around and smashed his elbow in the direction where he expected a face.  
Instead, he caught a clavicle, but the stranger backed away with a surprised gasp and Therion had enough time to reach for his dagger.  
But there was nothing there.

"Calm down!"

The stranger raised his hands defensively and backed off a little. "You're safe."

Two more people approached him and Therion wasn't quite sure if he was telling the truth considering their glares, but the pain in his shoulder reminded him that he would be long dead otherwise.  
Grinding his teeth, he grabbed his shoulder and tried to stand up.  
"W-wait! Hey!”  
"Alfyn!”  
Despite the warning tone of the older man, the first one ran towards him and pushed him back onto the mat.  
"With a wound like that ya shouldn’t move too fast for a while, alright?"  
"Hands…off." He pushed the guy away, but stayed put and took a deep breath. His head was trembling and he still had trouble keeping his balance. Confused he reached for the bandage on his upper body and finally found the time to look around while his breaths calmed down.

Still a forest – great.  
At least the place didn't seem too familiar to him, which meant at least a little progress. Hopefully.  
The group seemed to have set up camp here. Although the sun was still in the sky, it was already setting on the horizon and announced the first evening hours. Nevertheless... He drove with his eye over the open terrain. It was away from the protection of the trees, open for any kind of observer. A clearing like this seemed to be quite unsuitable for an overnight stay, being a perfect target for monsters living in this forest.  
On the other hand...  
His gaze met that of the big man.  
A mountain of a guy with broad shoulders and hard facial features, covered in scars and bruises. Attached to his belt was an almost gigantic broadsword and Therion couldn't wait to bring as much distance as possible between himself and this guy. He scrutinized Therion with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, so he turned away. This group was definitely prepared for monsters.

At a safe distance from him stood a woman dressed in red silk and shiny jewellery. The full, brown hair, red lips and the rattling chains on her clothes indicated an artist better suited for a caravan than a stoic mercenary like the big one. Her gaze, however, was cool, veiled by scepticism and caution, but still gripped by a determination that Therion didn’t know from the usual wandering artists and showmen. He didn't like her, so he would keep an eye on her.

The last one of the bunch had gone to his knees next to him and looked at him in concern.  
He could be a tree as well, tall and with broad shoulders, but the posture and clothes were rather simple and tattered. The dark blonde hair was probably tied to a ponytail sometime this morning in a futile attempt to tame it. The most ridiculous thing, however, was the goddamn patient smile he gave him when he noticed his gaze.

Therion tried to bite down his nausea.  
"Who are you?”  
He cursed himself for his trembling voice.  
There was no trace of the three thieves who had attacked him.  
"Where am I?”

"We noticed the fire," explained the guy kneeling in front of him - Alfyn, was it? He laughed quietly and scratched his neck in embarrassment. "Just arrived in time, I'd say. T’was a really nasty poison on that arrow, I tell ya."  
Therion instinctively grabbed the wound and huffed.  
"Speaking of which." The woman came closer. Her chains jingled with every step and Therion couldn't believe that she was still alive if her clothes announced her presence this quickly.  
She glared at him beneath thick eyelashes.  
"Why exactly were those three after you?"  
He tried to pull the arm with the fool’s bagle under his coat, even though they had surely seen it long ago, but he could only sigh in frustration when it occurred to him that they had probably taken the mantle off to treat the wound. He averted his gaze.  
"None of your business."  
"Oh, it is." She crossed her arms and shifted her weight so that it was impossible for him to not notice the dagger attached to her leg, shimmering in the light. "I heard you talking about the men with the mark of the crow. What do you know about them?  
This statement actually caught him unprepared.  
He would have expected them to know about the dragonstones - Heathcote had made sure that the rumors only spoke of a "treasure", but since the first three had already been stolen, there must have been one or two people who knew exactly what kind of treasure House Ravus was guarding.  
But crows...?  
"Not much." Considering the fact that both she and the giant could point their weapons at him any moment now while he still hadn’t found out where his equipment had gone, he gave in. For now. "The guy mentioned something about them. Probably after the treasure of House Ravus, too."  
"A treasure?” Alfyn's eyes lit up as soon as the words left his lips. "Prim, didya know about that?"  
The woman shook her head.  
"The letter mentions nothing of the sort," she said and put a hand to her chin. "But that might make it easier for us to track them down. What do you think, Sir Olberic?  
She turned to the mercenary who had stayed in the background so far.  
He closed his eyes and came a few steps closer. Therion fixed his gaze on him to avoid being surprised by a sudden movement.  
"You only have one man's whereabouts this far, so it might be of help for your journey," Olberic said. His voice was deep and calm, but Therion could not say for sure, if it was hiding a storm. Then the man suddenly turned to him. "What is this treasure? I presume that the people Primrose described would hardly be satisfied with gold coins and shiny jewels.”  
"Tch." Therion pressed his lips together before he finally raised his arm with the fool's bracelet, sighing. "Hell if I know."  
Maybe it was not his smartest move considering that the guy was probably just looking for a reason to hand him over to the next authorities, but he couldn't risk any more people tampering with his task. The dragonstones were difficult enough to track down as it was.  
Alfyn had the decency to look compassionate, but the other two exchanged a sceptical glance. For a moment Therion thought they would withdraw to consult in a whisper, but then Primrose turned to him again.  
"Apparently not." She gave him a sugary smile that Therion didn't buy for a second. "But doesn't it bother you that they followed you anyway?"  
“What bothers me…” Therion tried to imitate her polite tone and held her gaze, "…is how to get rid of this wretched shackle."  
She made a long whistle. "I've heard that’s almost impossible without the key."  
"You got it," he confirmed. "Almost.”  
"So what's the plan?" Alfyn asked curiously, as if they were talking about a fun adventure trip. The worst part was that, unlike his little girlfriend, he was dead serious about it. If Therion hadn't felt like puking before, that would have been the case by now.  
"Noblecourt," Therion replied, hoping they would leave him alone after that. “There’s supposed to be a guy, who-" He didn’t finish the sentence, when he noticed Primrose swallowing hard.  
“Noblecourt?” she repeated carefully and Therion had the feeling that he had stumbled across minefield. Great.  
"Tis quite a coincidence," Olberic said and Therion ran a hand through his hair. His headache didn't make the situation any better, and no matter what he tried to say to avoid the subject, he just seemed to get dragged deeper and deeper into this misery.  
"Look, I don't know what business you have with these crows and I don't really care." He snorted. "Why didn't you ask the damn assassins if that's so important to you?"  
"Shucks..." Alfyn scratched the back of his head and smiled. "I'm afraid that’s my fault."  
"I wouldn't have acted differently," said Olberic and put a hand on his shoulder. "The boy would have died without your help."  
He gave Therion a look that made it clear that he was "the boy", but he pretended that he didn’t notice.  
It was obvious that they only helped him to question him about those crows.  
"So you see, we are dependent on your help," Primrose finally said, shifting weight once again, which caused the veil on her skirt to fall so far that her legs were clearly visible. Therion suppressed an amused smile. Other men might have fallen for that kind of trick, but he had met enough swindlers in his life to see right through it.  
"I'm flattered," he said unimpressed. "Anything else?"  
She smiled, but dropped the charade.  
"You know, sooner or later I would have to go to Noblecourt anyway," she explained to him, sadness veiled in her tone. "Maybe your friend could help me out as well?  
"You want to take him with you," Alfyn realised and looked at Therion. "I mean, I wouldn't let him go alone with that wound either, but..." His eyes stayed on the fool’s bangle, but he looked away quickly when Therion glared at him.  
"If it is alright with you, Sir Olberic." She looked at the mercenary who thoughtfully closed his eyes and then nodded.  
"If it helps you, I shall keep an eye on him."  
"Hold it right there," Therion interrupted their happy travel plans. "I work alone. Thanks.”  
Primrose smiled. "Let's say either that or Olberic insists on handing you over to the guards in Victor’s Hollow."

He sighed. "Is that a threat?"

"Consider it more as friendly advice."

Great.  
Just. Great.


	2. The Price of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olberic tries to prove his strenght to have a chance at finding Gustav in the arena of Victor's Hollow and Therion realizes he has more in common with these people than he would have liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long. QwQ  
> I have a full time job and this chapter just wouldn't enddddd. I thought about cutting it in half, but nothing really happens during the first part, so eeeeeehhh. qq  
> Also I tried so hard to teach myself how Alfyn's dialect works, but I still fucked it up so most of the time he just talks normally, rip me.  
> I am already afraid of H'aanit, honestly.

Therion awoke with his breath held tight and a tension in his body that made his muscles ache.  
Fire burned in his chest like a cold blade on a summer evening long ago. Blood was rushing through his veins, the feeling of weightlessness tugging at his tired mind.  
But when the surroundings stopped turning and red rock became green forest, memory of the evening before gradually returned to his body.  
The tension fell and he was able to breathe.  
Therion held his arm over his face and closed his eyes for a moment to let his body calm down.

"Here.”

He flinched when he heard a voice, but then remembered the three travellers who had picked him up. He still had to find out the reason why.  
Therion straightened his shoulders as he sat up and gave Olberic a suspicious look from the side.   
"Got nothing better to do than watch me sleep?"   
The sharpness of his voice was lost in a dry rasp. The mercenary, sitting on a tree stump only a few meters beside him, calmly held a small leather bag in his direction.  
"Drink." 

His voice was unexpectedly kind and Therion eyed the bottle in both disbelief and suspicion. For a moment the soft crackling of the fireplace was the only noise he heard, accompanied only by the simmer of something that smelled like soup. The thought of food alone let the nausea rise in his throat again and Therion scowled.

“Alfyn did warn us that the fever could cause you some problems.” Olberic nudged the bottle closer in his direction. His voice was more direct this time.  
“Drink. It will help you.”  
Therion gritted his teeth, but took the bottle nevertheless. The leather was old and worn, but overall in better condition than his own equipment had ever been. His fingers brushed lightly over a seal, deeply hidden behind dirt and scratches. Time had made the sign unrecognizable, but that did not change the fact that his rescuers seemed to be of noble origin. The distaste was sure evident on his face.  
With a quick movement he took off the cap, peeked into it and then tried to smell anything odd about the liquid. He finally gave in to the begging of his sore throat and took a sip.   
As soon as the water had touched his lips, he felt the heat slowly give way and his body desperately asked for more. And despite the suspicion he still held towards the group, he followed the request.   
In the end his thirst was quenched, but a bitter taste remained in his throat.  
Therion hated handouts like that.  
He was no longer a little child dependent on the grace of people who wanted to feel particularly holy. This was no exception.  
His fingers cramped around the neck of the bottle and he looked back at Olberic, but the man had already turned his back on him.  
He poked into the embers with a stick, giving the flame air to breathe and reach even higher. The cauldron clattered over the fire. Next to him leaned the imposing broadsword against a nearby tree; ready to grasp at any moment. Therion sighed.

The last rays of dawn crept through the branches and cast long shadows over the two sleeping bodies of Alfyn and Primrose. The cold morning air made Therion shudder slightly and he tried to tighten his collar despite its missing buttons. A weight fell from his shoulders as he stirred and demanded his attention. Therion didn't have to examine the fabric to identify it as his shawl. Previously neatly folded, it had now collapsed in his lap. Holes had been stitched. Dirt and blood washed out.   
Only then did he realize that the bandages around his arms had also been replaced with clean ones. Only those who were tightly pressed into his skin by the fool’s bangle showed at least a trace to how they were before.   
The fabric was still a little damp, but when the wind once again stroked around his shoulders and made his neck hair stand, he threw the shawl around his shoulders without further ado.

Again wrapped in his coat, face and neck protected by a scarf and the fool’s bangle hidden behind two layers of fabric, he felt much more comfortable in his skin. He would be able to repair the emptiness of his pockets himself; since Olberic did not pay him any more attention, his water bottle was the first part of his new collection.   
Only without his weapons and lockpicks would Therion face difficulties on his own. But they couldn't be far. He would have to get at least one knife back as soon as possible if he wanted to defend himself. 

It was certainly no secret that Olberic, as a mercenary, carried a certain amount weapons. Their different height and especially the resulting fighting styles made his weapons almost unusable for Therion though. It was impossible to be fast when the weight of one’s own weapon pushed him to the ground.  
Next to Olberic's sword was a large travel bag. A simple one, only closed by a tight rope against its top. It seemed well filled. Provisions and useful tools for a camp like this inevitably took up a large part of the contents. Weapons, however, would certainly ruin the bag. So if Olberic had something with him that belonged to Therion, he carried it on the smaller weapon bags that lined up around his belt. He had already lost his sword during the confrontation with the three others, and if this group hadn't picked it up, one of them had taken it with him.  
Therion bit his lower lip in frustration. It was hard to get hold of belt bags, especially on a guy who looked like he was prepared for surprises around the clock anyways.  
Primrose didn't seem to carry much luggage except her travel mat. All that remained was Alfyn.

In the course of the night he had managed to free himself completely from his blanket and now lied with his head half in the dirt. An old leather bag was used as a pillow. It was not suitable for carrying swords like Olberics, but offered safe space for smaller weapons.   
The clasp seemed simple. A simple belt buckle, strapped to a worn-out strap. If he could get close enough, he could take a closer look, but with Alfyn right next to it and Olberic's gaze on his neck, now was not the time. At the moment he had to keep his feet still and wait until the situation was right.

"How do you feel?"  
Olberic's voice interrupted his thoughts as if he was able to read them.  
He had still turned his back on Therion, but looked at him over his shoulder. The distrust of the evening before hadn't completely disappeared from his eyes yet, but his posture had clearly loosened. He must have realized by now that Therion was simply no danger to someone like him. At least not in his current state.  
Frustrated, Therion bit his lower lip and then dug his face into the scarf before answering.  
"...I’ve been worse."  
A sour aftertaste was still on his tongue and the veins on his temples were pounding firmly against his skull, but the shoulder that had suffered the worst injury was surprisingly calm. It hurt when he moved, but it was the pain he felt when his wounds had already had many days to heal. With pain like this, he was usually back on the streets long ago to do his job.  
Compared to what he was used to or had expected from yesterday's fight, he was actually feeling rather good.

A smile played around Olberic's hard features. But it disappeared in the blink of an eye and his gaze was firm again. A deep fold crossed his forehead, then he shook his head. Therion raised his eyebrows, but knew better than to ask what was going through his head.   
As a thief, patience was a virtue. Observing people for days to identify patterns of behaviour and meeting places was as much a part of his job as sneaking in the shadow with steps as silent as a heartbeat. It was only a matter of time before the mercenary would make a mistake. At some point he would have to get tired or focus his attention on something else. And until then Therion could wait for his wounds to heal.   
This deal was half as bad as he thought it would be.

He stretched and finally got up on his feet. Something ins his stomach protested due to the sudden movement, but the feeling died down, once took a deep breath and regained his balance.  
The fool’s bangle clicked, as he moved and Therion instinctively pulled his arm deeper under his coat. He was still feeling sluggish, despite having slept for what could only be hours. His head was heavy and his body shaking. Recovery would still take a while, it seemed.  
The cold wind crept between his clothes and made him shiver once again. The coat was still damp and the dew drops on the ground told him that wouldn’t change anytime soon.   
The ground around the fire however consisted mainly of earth and clay and the fireplace itself promised warmth and light.   
Therion took a quick glance at Olberic, but after a short struggle with himself, he trotted over to him, making sure to sit on the opposite side and being able to observe both Primrose and Alfyn.  
If Olberic was bothered by that, he didn’t mention it.

The sun slowly rose on the horizon and along with it the rest of the forest woke from its sleep.  
Birds chirped right above their heads and a woodpecker pecked so loudly in a nearby tree that Therion wondered how Sleeping Beauty and the Beast could still be sleeping soundly in their mats.   
Olberic seemed satisfied with how his soup had turned out and gently approached the other two to wake them up.   
Primrose opened her eyes as soon as he touched her. The shadow of a restless night glimmered in her eyes before she blinked it away with a sweet smile and rose. Alfyn, on the other hand, needed a second push before he even woke up, and even then he sat by the fire, hair still undone and buttons tied in the wrong places. Therion wasn't sure if his mind was still wandering around dreamland.

Conversation became louder after a few wooden bowls were unpacked. Therion listened with one ear, but otherwise kept to himself and watched the group interact. From what he could pick up, they didn't travel together for long, but their tones were familiar and friendly. Only Primrose had a natural distance in her posture. A doubt followed every smile.  
Not that he could judge her for it.  
Only with caution could one protect oneself from death in this world. And the way Primrose's shoulders stiffened when she was touched unexpectedly and her eyes sometimes remained on the ground without focus, told him that she had learned this lesson the hard way. Nevertheless, she voluntarily surrounded herself with other people, had even been the one who had suggested for him to travel with them - although one could hardly call it a mere suggestion, really.   
Alfyn, on the other hand, had more heart than mind. His cheerful blubber told stories of a fulfilled childhood with a warm meal every morning, which he started to miss quite a lot since he was on the road. In the last two minutes alone Therion had already learned more about this man than anyone else in recent years and he could only shake his head silently. Especially when Alfyn finally turned to him with a broad smile and handed him a full bowl of soup. The gesture had caught him by surprise and Therion stared at the bowl in confusion.

"Heh, still asleep, are ya?" Alfyn laughed and shoved the bowl into his hands. "Breakfast’s ready."  
Therion glanced at Olberic, but once again, nobody seemed to mind him. Hesitantly, he accepted the bowl and stared at the ingredients for a while longer. Alfyn however was satisfied, thanked Olberic for the meal and clasped his hands together: “Enjoy!”

For a brief moment, no one said a word and focused on their food. Seeing as nobody spat it out again, coughing and gasping for air, it had to be edible.  
Therion took a tiny bite of what he could only guess was a carrot and let it rest on his tongue for a while, before deciding that it was indeed not poisonous.  
His body relaxed, as the hunger gave away. The nausea slowly subsided as the heat filled him from inside.  
Disregarding sparsely roasted meat, his last warm meal had been quite long ago and he savoured every bite he could get.

"Sooo…" As fast as the silence had come, it was gone. After a few minutes Alfyn turned to him and smiled. Again. "Don’t think I got yer name. Sorry bout that."  
"Nobody asked." Therion grumbled over the edge of his bowl. "I don't know who you people are either.  
"Oh, shucks! Sorry!" Alfyn rubbed his neck in embarrassment. "Gotta be quite weird to spend the morning with a bunch a strangers. The name’s Alfyn." He winked at him confidently and Therion rolled his eyes. "Alfyn Greengrass. I'm a travelling apothecary, so if anything’s wrong, don’t be afraid to ask.”  
Therion already knew that. His treated wound didn't come from anywhere, after all, but he just gave a nod. Under the cover of his coad, he gently tucked at the bandages around his shoulder. Good work. Alfyn was definitely not an amateur, but either stupid enough not to ask for payment or practical enough to just take it from his bag – seeing as they were able to do with it whatever they pleased when he was still passed out.  
"Primrose", the woman introduced herself, nestling thoughtfully with a strand of hair. "I was a dancer in sunshade."  
That would explain her clothes at least. The dagger, however, told a completely different story…  
"Olberic Eisenberg." The mercenary nodded in his direction, seemed to think for a moment before he continued, but ended his introduction rather vague: "I served as a knight for a long time."  
Therion raised an eyebrow, but did not ask for further information when none came.   
Three pairs of eyes curiously rested on him. He thought of all the options he had, but decided to go for the truth in this case. There was nothing to his name anyhow.  
"Therion," he said curtly, without raising his eyes, but instead raised his hand with the fool's bangle. "You know the rest."  
"So it's true?" Alfyn leaned a bit in his direction and Therion gave him a dark look. "What exactly?”  
"You know..." Alfyn scratched his chin, searching for words and messed around with the loose strands of hair surrounding his face. “The bangle..."  
Therion scowled. "Do you have a point?"  
"Alfyn thinks it might have been a misunderstanding." Primrose shrugged. Alfyn laughed sheepishly: "Hey, doesn't happen all day that a thief is chased through a forest by others of his trade."  
Therion sighed. "It doesn't matter who you are if you have something they want."  
"They", Olberic asked.  
"Thieves”, he replied. "Bandits. Pirates. Whoever. Sometimes it's the person right next to you."  
...Or the one who had back for years.  
Primrose had probably expected a different answer. She crossed her arms.   
"You say that as if it were a good thing." For the first time that morning, Alfyn's smile seemed to crumble.   
"Not really." Therion shrugged. "But that's the way things are."

Again silence followed. Olberic sighed heavily.  
"A true word," he finally said. "There are many dishonest souls in this world."  
"All the more reasons to change that", Alfyn chimed in. "Even the smallest act can make a difference, ain’t it?”  
Therion chuckled as he put his empty bowl down.  
"Yeah, why not?", he said, a sly smile creeping on his lips. "Why not start by giving back my stuff?”  
Alfyn laughed sheepishly, but Primrose brushed if off.   
"I don't think those things really do belong to you, do they?", she asked, again with that malicious sweetness in her voice Therion had quickly learned to hate.  
"You'll get it back," Olberic said and gave one of the larger pockets on his belt a little clap. "As soon as I'm sure you're no threat to Lady Primrose."  
"Great." Therion sighed. "Then why all this? You could have just left if you are so worried. Don't tell me you noticed the damned shackle, when it was already too late."  
"Come on now." Alfyn had the nerve to sound seriously hurt. "We are no monsters. No one in their right mind would have just left you there."  
"You're joking." Therion searched his face for any signs that he was, but Alfyn actually seemed to mean it. He turned away with a hum and Therion shook his head. "I don't get you."  
"What exactly?”, Alfyn asked, as Primrose chuckled to herself.  
"All of this.” Therion raised his arm to point at all the fresh bandages. "Why bother?"  
"Bother?” Alfyn still didn't seem to understand. Then the frown gave way to a smile and the compassion that swung in his expression was a lot worse than the boundless naivety before.  
“Hey, I saw someone in a bind an’ helped him out. ‘s as simple as that.”  
Therion scowled and stood up. This conversation was starting to get more and more ridiculous.   
“You’re either a better liar than I thought”, he said. “Or just plain stupid.”  
Primrose rose as well, but Olberic stopped her from saying anything. Therion did not really care, but he was glad for the silence that finally came over them.

 

The streets of Victor’s Hollow were filled with life. The smell of exquisite food and beer filled the air. Merchants offered their goods on every corner of the street and travellers with full wallets were seduced by fancy stories and shiny jewels. From rare materials like the tusks of a behemoth to supposed relics like Steorra's necklace, his gaze was drawn not only to true treasures but also to daring forgeries. However, most of the jewellery on display seemed valuable and Therion could feel his fingers tingling as they passed by. Olberic's stern gaze in his neck, however, prevented him from making an ill-considered movement.  
"It's amazing how much is goin’ on here." Alfyn gave a long whistle as they strolled through the streets. He turned several times, whenever something had raised his interest and his eyes shone as strong as the gold on showcase. "Did we stumble into a festivity of sorts?"  
"It seems so", said Primrose, who let her gaze wander between the passers-by.   
Olberic nodded. "I haven't seen such crowds in a long time."  
"You're not around the woodlands a lot, huh?" Therion crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. "Victor’s Hollow is known for his tournaments. People from all over the world are constantly coming to watch the fights. In Boulderfall we always have people stopping by on their way to see it. It appears, we’ve just burst right into one of those.”  
"Oh, I've heard stories ‘bout the arena", Alfyn said, curiously eyeing a certain stand that offered healing herbs and the like. "Didn’t really expect it to be such a big deal."  
"People have always had a soft spot for drama.” Primrose sighed, putting her hand tightly around the handle of her dagger as if it would tell them, what she thought of. "A fight for fame and glory is popular tactic to win the favour of the people.”  
"Ah, yes. Tournaments like these were very popular in my homeland as well”, Olberic said. "A good way to measure one's own strength against others. An old friend and I often participated..."  
Therion did not miss the heaviness in his voice, although Olberic was keeping a straight face just as before. The sudden tension seemed familiar. The contracted eyebrows, a painful memory flickering through his eyes. And for the first time, Therion looked at the crossed scars in Olberic's face differently.   
As subtle as possible, he raised his own hand and touched the skin below his left eye. The damaged skin was still easily recognizable and drove far down his cheek. He had hoped, it would get better with time, at first at least. But it war there now, just as plain and obvious as the scars Olberic wore from all the battles he must have fought before and it would remind him forever that he had been nothing but a fool.

"Yer so damn sentimental, mate."

He hastily lowered his hand, before anyone would notice and stared at Olberic instead, while he told his story.   
"Didya win?" Alfyn asked playfully.  
"No." A smile crazed Olberic's features, followed by a shadow and disappeared behind a deep sigh. "I was never able to defeat him in a duel.”  
It was ridiculous how much Therion could relate.  
The memory let him ball his hands to fists and he turned his gaze away.   
Alfyn laughed brightly. "I guess everyone’s got his master, huh?"  
Olberic laughed with him - despite the tension that had suddenly hit his bones. Conversations with Alfyn seemed strangely weightless. From one moment to the next the pain was forgotten and instead they found themselves in a conversation about the weather of all things. Another thing Therion just couldn’t quite understand.  
But when Alfyn grabbed his wallet to buy one of the plants, stumbled and almost spilled all his belongings on the ground, he could not prevent the amused smile that scurried across his face.

 

"So where exactly do we find this... Gustav, right?"  
A few minutes later and with a curious herb in hand, Alfyn shouldered his bag and looked at Olberic.   
"That is what we have to find out," he replied.   
"You said he was a knight too, didn't you?" Primrose said. "Wouldn't the arena be a good place then?"   
Therion gritted his teeth as soon as the word “Knight” reached his ears. If this Gustav guy was as attentive as Olberic was, the moment he would notice the fool’s bangle was the moment, he could say goodbye to his change of ever getting close enough to Olberic’s pockets.  
He got a few steps closer, Justin case. Not too close to attract his attention, but close enough to move his hand in one quick motion, when opportunity knocked. Unlike Alfyn, whose purse still left an obvious dent behind the fine leather and was within reach for every man like Therion, Olberic always had his hands close to his pockets, or at least at an angle where he could easily grasp Therion's hand and probably break it in the process.   
"I hope you don't intend to participate in the battles yourself," he remarked to cover his sudden closeness. "Even if your guy’s there, there are probably still enough other fighters that you would have to defeat first. In other words: You're wasting your time."  
"That may be." Olberic nodded thoughtfully. "I still want to see the arena. Any information about Gustav could help me."  
"Why are you looking for him anyways?” Therion wasn’t really interested in his lifestory, but Primrose had clearly mentioned heading to Stillsnow before and Victor’s Hollow was on the exact opposite direction he had to head to himself.   
The two knights apparently didn’t really know each other to top it off. "Doesn't really sound like your visiting for a friendly chat."  
Olberic sighed heavily. Primrose, on the other hand, had been staying on his heels. Her movements were gentle. Curved hips and jingling chains as she held her eyes turned to Olberic, who had crossed his arms as he walked and rubbed his temples. Therion did notice, however, that she was just trying to be subtle about keeping an eye on him.  
"I was told he could help me," Olberic explained. "I was told he knows the man who is responsible for the death of my liege."   
Therion raised an eyebrow. So he was looking for a murderer?   
Was this a mission of revenge? Was Olberic about to pay back what had once been taken from him? Therion chuckled.  
So the noble knight didn't seem to be pursuing quite as noble goals as Therion had suspected and admittedly, that was interesting. No matter how much time he would have to spend with these people, he was at least well entertained. It also meant that Olberic had better things to do than keep an eye on him all of the time.  
Alfyn rubbed his neck. From the corner of his eye, Therion could watch him struggle with himself for a moment before turning to Olberic to ask a question.  
He wasn’t able to voice it though, as the man raised his arm and pointed to the large building that rose above the old city walls.  
"We’re there."

A circular structure of stone and bronze was towering atop the other houses of the city and shone like a rare treasure in the splendour of the sun's rays. People from various regions of Orsterra lined up around the wide gates, while fighters sharpened their weapons in the shadows of the walls. White statues of pure marble stood proudly in the form of the goddess Winnehild and raised their spears ready for battle as they looked down at the people to their feet with a proud smile.

"Step closer! Gather round!”

In the middle of the square stood a man on a wooden pedestal and called out to the people surrounding him. 

"Come and learn more about the greatest tournament of the year. We have fighters from all corners of Orsterra – and beyond even!"

His voice was loud as a thunder despite his age. With a passion that would make many poets grow pale in shame, he told passers-by about the eight competitors who had made it to the final of the tournament. Nothing unusual for a tournament of this size, but Olberic listened attentively. It wasn't until the name "Gustav" came up that he stepped down the stairs and fought his way through the crowds to the market crier.   
"Did you just say "Gustav"?"  
"Ah, I see you have an eye for talent, good sir." Satisfied with the attention, the man waved his hand through his beard. He used the question to start a long story about the man who had become commonly known as "the Black Knight". Stories about kings and legendary monsters were exaggerated and so glossed over that Therion wondered if much of it was not simply taken from old legends.  
While the people around the square barely contained their enthusiasm, the fairy tales failed to impress Olberic. He waited for the right moment and asked the only question that was of significance to him:  
"Do you know how I can find him?"

 

"We could try to sneak into the chambers of the participants after the fights," Primrose suggested as they made their way to the inn a few minutes later. Olberic smiled: "I suppose the quarters are well guarded. But thank you for your suggestions, milady."  
Therion had noticed that Olberic used a noble title for Primrose. It seemed an odd fit, considering how she walked through the streets in thin silk cloths, as if there was more to her work than just dancing. It was curious, but Therion knew better than to call them out on it.  
"Alfyn is a doctor after all," he noted instead and took a bite of the apple he had taken from a stand earlier when Olberic was busy with the market crier. "If you say you belong with him, they'll let you in."  
"Hopefully they will have their own healers prepared," Alfyn said with a laugh. "But I can sure try if you want, Sir Olberic."  
Olberic nodded. "If all else fails, I'll come back to it."  
"In other words, we'll probably still be here next week," Therion grumbled and flicked one of the apple seeds across the street. "Something tells me this guy won’t approach you on his own.”  
The market crier had made it quite clear how difficult it was for ordinary people to approach most of the fighters. Those who didn't want to bathe in fame and fortune usually kept a low profile and avoided contact with the raging crowds. And if Therion had understood the story correctly, Gustav certainly wouldn't have much interest in engaging in a conversation with Olberic, no matter how noble he might be.  
Contrary to his expectations, Olberic laughed quietly. "Are you in a hurry, my friend?"  
"I'm not exactly keen on spending the rest of my life with this shackle, thanks."  
Primrose smiled, but Alfyn gave him that concerned look again.  
"Sure I can't help you? It's pretty tight..."  
Therion rolled his eyes. "That's kind of the point?"  
"I don't want to interrupt you, but I agree with Therion," Primrose remarked. "I should arrive in Stillsnow before word of Helgenish's death reaches to the north. I don't want to be a burden to you, Sir Olberic, but if there's a way to confront Gustav quickly, I'd prefer it."  
Once again, Alfyn fidgeted with the strap of his satchel and rubbes his neck. Therion examined Primrose from top to bottom and made a mental note that Primrose was indeed able to use that dagger she liked to show off so much.  
Olberic's answer was something Therion considered consent, but he didn't really listen any more as the sound of the footsteps behind them grew louder. They were following them since they had left the plaza. At first he had thought it was other people walking through the streets, it was a busy day afterall. But even now, when the market district and the arena were behind them and things were gradually getting calmer, the footsteps were right on their heels. He pulled the scarf tighter around his neck and concentrated on listening.  
Alfyn somehow started a story about snow and Primrose was more than willing to indulge. Two merchants near the inn exchanged a bag full of leaves and the footsteps remained steady. Whether they stopped straight because Olberic wanted to ask someone about Gustav, or whether they accelerated their pace, the footsteps adapted to their own and always kept hidden in the shade of the houses. They were irregular though. One step was firm, the other seemed to lag a little. Not directly a limp, but clearly the sign of injury. The leg was the weak spot. But which one?

After Therion was sure, they were being followed, he dropped the leather bottle that Olberic had more or less voluntarily given him and took the chance to turn around.  
At a safe distance from them stood tall guy with deep brown skin and red hair. The face was rather squared, memorable. Therion had seen enough to recognize him and didn't allow his gaze linger too long.  
"Whoops.” Alfyn's laughter only helped him to act as if he really dropped the bottle out of clumsiness. "We're all ready for a break, huh?"  
Therion agreed and then caught up with them in a few quick steps.  
"Don't turn around," he instructed the group in a whisper. "Someone is following us.”  
"Ah, so I were right.” Olberic nodded, while both Alfyn and Primrose exchanged a surprised look.   
"A warrior", he explained to them calmly. "Quick with the blade. An evil glare..."  
"That doesn't sound so good..." Alfyn nearly turned to the man and Therion grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. The apothecary hastily thanked him. "But we'll be in the inn soon, won't we? He can't follow us forever."  
"You'd be surprised," Primrose replied with a dark smile. "People are capable of more than many would expect them to.”  
"Indeed." Olberic nodded. "But I am no man who flees from a fight."

Without further hesitation he stopped and turned to the stranger.  
"What do you want?”  
Therion only sighed. Olberic already seemed like a man of action rather than one of words, but this confrontation right on the open road was a little too daring for Therion’s tastes.   
They knew nothing about the man following them or what abilities he had.  
But apparently daring wasn’t daring enough for Olberic.   
With his chest held high, he crossed his arms and called out to the stranger: "If you're looking for violence, know that you shall have it."  
The man didn't answer, but he stepped out of the shadow and stopped in front of them.  
One hand lay on the handle of his sword, ready to figh, the other was at his side and barely hid the bandage behind the thin fabric of his vest.  
The injury alone did not protect them from sudden attacks though. Therion knew far too well that some people threw themselves into battle with more serious injuries than that.  
For a moment the stranger looked at them, but then he nodded and turned back towards the shadows.  
"He seems to know how to wield a blade," he grumbled and crossed his arms. "Even if I were at my full strength, I would probably not stand a chance…”  
Therion raised an eyebrow as a second figure came out behind the barrels and glowered at the man with a satisfied grin.   
"I knew you would agree. My eyes have never deceived me before".  
She was a fragile figure. Slim, dressed in pretty robes and with a red bow in her hair that made her look childish and naive. His gut told Therion that appearances could definitely be deceptive here.

With a graceful gesture, she tugged a silver strand of hair from her face before turning to Olberic.  
"I’m sorry for the little shouw, but I wanted Ned to get a picture of you. You must know..." She sighed and made a clear movement towards his leg. "If he weren't wounded, he'd be a participant in the tournament himself."  
Alfyn stirred, but then decided not to say anything when he noticed the clean bandages around his torso. Olberic glared at the strangers: "If you have business with me then state it straight out."

“Ah, pardon me, sir." The lady made a quick bow. "Cecily, at your service. I am what is commonly known as a promoter of sorts."  
"And what exactly do you promote?" Primrose's voice was always calm and if there ever was a time when it wasn’t, Therion had not seen it yet. She had never been gloomy or childishly bright. Even her playful flirts with men she wanted to use for her advantage always seemed calm and well thought out. This, however, was a different tone.  
It was not jealousy. Therion knew jealousy and although the tone could be quite aggressive, Primrose's tongue had a sharpness behind that was far more than childish infatuation.  
However, he could quite put his finger on what it was.  
"Mostly arena battles," Ned replied, one arm at his side. "Not that Cecily's had a lot of success so-"  
She slapped him against the upper arm and although her strength was far from impressive, Therion hoped for the poor guy that she hadn't hit the wound.  
Then again it was his leg that was limping. Even now the man was just leaning on his right leg and holding the other one slightly bent so as not to put too much pressure on it. So the shoulder was probably not a problem at all.  
"Get to the point." Primrose interrupted the squabbling of the two.  
Within seconds the broad smile had returned to Cecily's smile and although it had a staged feel to it, Therion believed it was honest.   
"You want to meet the man named Gustav, don't you?" She put her arms up to her hips and winked at Olberic. "I can help you with that. The tournament fighters usually don't talk to the common people, but if you were to take part in the tournament yourself, things would be different..."  
A part of Therion thought she wanted to find a replacement for Ned, but the injury must have come from one of the fights. So he had lost and therefore had no place in the final rounds.  
"How’s that supposed to work?" Alfyn asked. "The preliminary rounds are over, no?"  
Olberic nodded.  
"It's easy, really." Cecily happily clasped her hands together. "You just have to prove that you are better than the current battlers. The men come from all corners of the world to prove that they can handle a blade. Whether in the tournament or not, they want to show they strength. A lot of street battles take place during tournament seasons. So I'll make sure you get enough attention, you prove that you deserve a place in the tournament, and then, finally, I'll make sure you get exactly that."  
Olberic put a hand on his chin.  
"But the current fighters are certainly above such common brawls. No one would give up their place in the tournament for a battle in the corner of a street."  
"Some do, trust me." Ned shrugged. "They want to prove their strength, so they can't resist a challenge. Be it the arena or out here. They want to make a name for themselves."  
Primrose put one arm on Olberic's shoulder before he could make his decision.   
"And why exactly would you help him?"  
Cecily, however, had expected the question. A satisfied smile crept onto her lips as she playfully glared at Primrose. "When you get into the tournament, you fight under my colours. If you get to the finals, people will beg for me to make contract with them."  
"Sounds like a deal you both could profit from, huh?" Alfyn noted, but turned around to look at Olberic. "What do ya say?  
"I accept." He reached his hand to shake Cecily’s. "A chance like this won't come back anytime soon."  
Therion was still convinced that it would have been easier to get access to the quarters thanks to Alfyn after the fights were over. The participants would be exhausted and tired - even if Gustav was as powerful as the market crier would have them believe, he wouldn't have a chance against Olberic. But this wasn't his fight, and if Olberic wanted to fight for fame and glory, he couldn't keep an eye on Therion. He would take the chance to fill his empty pockets.   
"Great!” Cecily shook his hand energetically and Primrose gritted her teeth. "I let my clerk draw up the contract directly. Do you have a name to fight with?"  
"My own," Olberic answered. "Olberic Eisenberg."  
Suddenly all composure left Ned's body and he took a step back to stare at him in stunned silence.  
"Olberic Eisenberg," he repeated. "The unbending blade of Hornburg himself?"  
Now that was new. Therion turned around as well, but Olberic did indeed nod with a brief sigh.  
He had heard stories of the twin blades of Hornburg, but years had passed since they were last mentioned and with the years the memory had faded. He remembered someone telling him that they both died at the final battle of Hornburg, but Olberic was a pretty convincing evident that this was just a tale for the drunk.  
Cecily, on the other hand, had difficulty keeping her enthusiasm in check.  
"A noble man - and famous too," she raved, "Ha! I told you, Ned. I have a knack for the right ones."   
"So how do we proceed?" Olberic interrupted her.   
"First you have to make a name for yourself in the city. Let's look for some people who want let off some steam…”

 

The opponents Cecily chose for him did not have the slightest chance against Olberic. Their movements were rigid, their reaction time slow. Even Therion would have made short work of most of them, but Alfyn kept being mesmerized by how fascinating it was to see Olberic fight.  
Cecily should prove to keep her word.  
With each new opponent more people gathered around Olberic and the first started to whisper who this strange warrior could be.   
Whereas Olberic did not want to put his title to display, Cecily used his fame to lure the people and the stronger fighters, who wanted to test their skill against the one and only “Unbending Blade”.  
"Do they all have nicknames like that?" Therion asked with a low chuckle as someone called "One hundred-Punch-Man" introduced himself.   
"It's a part of the tournament," replied Alfyn, who had eventually approached Ned about the injury and was brewing a remedy for the cut on his leg. "People will remember it more easy. So you’ll get known in no time.”  
"It doesn't work with fighters only," remarked Primrose. "Many dancers or other artists give themselves names that they hope people will remember."  
"Yes, the "jewel of the desert" is known even up here," Ned agreed, but didn't turn his gaze away from the current battle Olberic fought with a challenger from the East. "You may also have heard of the “Phantom of the Clifflands”. A notorious thief who is currently making his rounds."  
Therion shook his head with a smile. "You do realize thieves do this so you won’t recognize them on the street, right? They don’t exactly want to be known."  
"Oh yeah, have ya met him, Therion?" Alfyn looked at him with the most goddamn innocent look Therion had ever seen.   
"Why should I?" he replied with clenched teeth and elbowed him pointing to Ned, who luckily hadn’t turned to them. "Do you know every soul that's been wandering around the riverlands?"  
"Ah." Alfyn rubbed his neck and laughed. "Got me there, buddy.”  
Primrose gave him a suspicious look, but then turned back to Cecily. Her distrust was clearly visible, but Therion wasn't quite sure what exactly she feared. Even if Cecily only wanted to lure Olberic into the arena to make him fight against her strongest fighter, he would end up cherishing the challenge at the very least.

In the end, the plan worked out and among all the nameless nobodies a tournament fighter actually dared to approach Olberic.  
While most of the fighters were near the arena to prepare for upcoming challenges, there were also those whose confidence in their abilities made them walk the streets with swelled chests and their noses in the sky. They already basked in the glory that the preliminary rounds had brought and enjoyed the applause while there was still a soul in the city that actually cared. 

Therion knew enough people like Victorino to actually look forward to how Olberic would kick his stupid ass.

The "Buccaneer’s Bane" had apparently made a name for himself by hunting down other pirates and so the bets raced up when two well-known fighters wanted to prove their courage and their strength.   
Cecily didn't bother to hide the broad grin as the battle began and the first people gathered around her to ask where she had found such a legendary warrior.

Alfyn and Ned got closer to the action to get a better view of the battle, and Therion thought about doing the same, but then stayed leaning against the wall of the inn and smiled as Olberic and Victorino teased the other.  
"He's good," said Primrose, laughing quietly as Victorino swallowed the bait and reached for his weapons. "He knows to grab them where it hurts."  
"Didn’t take him for an actor, to be honest.” Therion shrugged. “Cecily probably doesn’t mind, though.”  
Once again Primrose glanced at the woman, who watched the fight with burning passion in her eyes. She scowled. Therion chuckled.  
"You don't like her.”  
Primrose pulled her eyebrows together, fiddled with her words and ended with a long sigh.  
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "I know women like her. Stubborn and hotheaded. They seduce men with promises and lead them into financial ruin with the sweetest of words. I have used the same technique far too often myself."  
Therion closed his eyes and let Primrose's words sink in for a moment. Then he looked back at Olberic, who had just knocked the dagger out of Victorino's hand, forcing him to use his saber instead.  
"Do you really think he's that stupid?"  
"No," Primrose replied firmly. "But I can't help but worry..."  
There was a certain sadness in her voice that caught Therion off guard. She still held a straight posture, her whole demeanour proud and distanced, but there was a bitterness in her that made her seem tiny and vulnerable at the same time.  
Therion adverted his gaze. "So you know each other quite well, huh?”  
"No." She shook her head and played thoughtfully with the jewellery on her wrist. "But I owe him my life. If he had not come to Sunshade, there would have been two dead dancers in the dunes this day and nobody would bat an eye.”  
Therion had questions. A lot of them, but this seemed to be a story, Primrose was not ready to tell just yet. More than anything he was curious, how behind the façade of a cute dancer there was a story of blood and murder buried deep inside her hard. Remembering that Olberic called her a “Lady” made him wonder just what he had gotten himself into.  
"If you like him that much, give him a little credit, yeah?” Therion shrugged. "I don’t know much about this, but I’m sure Olberic knows what he’s doing.”  
"I hope so. I really do."   
With that silence came once again.

 

Therion had originally told himself that he only wanted to look at Olberic's techniques to know what to prepare for, but the longer the fight lasted, the more he had to agree with Alfyn. Olberic showed a skill Therion had never seen before. The broadsword seemed weightless in his hands and glided through the air with precise blows.   
He had always thought of sword fighting as rather blunt. It didn't take much talent to wave a pointed metal stick around, and most thieves who had no experience in weaponry did just that. Even the more skilled individuals among them, and Therion considered himself as just that, used the sword for stronger blows to knock someone off or to defend themselves against other blades. Those who wanted to slit something usually used their daggers. You couldn't find a grindstone everywhere and knives were much easier to sharpen than a whole sword.  
Olberic on the other hand led the blade like an extension of his arm. The movements were fluid, as if it were a part of him.  
But Victorino wasn’t all too shabby either. He still had far too much faith in his own abilities and his skill did not make up for his arrogance in the slightest, but he paried many of Olberic's blows that would have easily made Therion hit the canvas. Ultimately, however, he could not defend himself forever and after a final blow straight to his back, he lost his strength.

The people broke out in cheers when Victorino finally raised his hand in defeat.  
Cecily immediately scurried in between the people like a weasel to get to Olberic. Primrose's gaze seemed sharper than her dagger, but it had lost the venom it had before their conversation.   
Olberic was embarrassed and seemed overwhelmed with attention and praise, especially as Alfyn patted him on the shoulder. But Victorino, too, finally rose with shaking legs and reached out his hand to congratulate him on his victory. He did not hesitate to announce that Olberic would be taking part in the tournament in his stead.   
So even a lawless pirate had enough understanding for honour and tradition to admit defeat, and Therion found himself impressed by that. For a brief moment he had been able to understand the joy of the masses. Watching the fight had caused a feeling in him that distantly reminded him of fun and he became painfully aware of how long it had been since he had honestly enjoyed himself.  
Normally life was one test after another, always thinking about how to live for the next day. Just letting himself relax without worrying about how to get his next meal was a rare luxury.  
But the moment was gone as soon as he could grasp it.

People gathered around Olberic to find out more about the mysterious warrior who had emerged from nowhere. Cecily was nothing but generous with big words and by that she captivated even those who were still rooting for the current champion or another participant. Meanwhile, Primrose had also fought her way through to Olberic and congratulated him with a soft smile.  
Therion wanted to do the same - mainly to keep an eye on the group of people and not lose them in the masses. Instead, however, his gaze grazed a shiny metal on the ground.

The dagger was small and ordinary. Victorino had previously used it to try and hit Olberic's weaker side, but the attempt was unsuccessful and since then the weapon lay unnoticed in the dust of the road.   
Therion's fingers were tingling.  
Tension settled around his body and his gaze automatically wandered to Olberic and Primrose, who were caught in a conversation with Cecily.  
Nobody paid him any mind whatsoever.

His lips curled into a smile as he took the dagger and then silently disappeared into the shadow of the streets.

He had not expected his escape to be this easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Therion, did no one tell you not to count your chicken before they hatch? ~
> 
> Also also, if you want to ramble about octopath or just say hi or something, you can find me on tumblr as "rynnthings" or on twitter as @NachteuleEluare. (I think? Still trying to figure this out, ahh)  
> I can be a little awkward at times, so sorry in advance qwq


End file.
